


A Christmas Cable

by pendrecarc



Category: Lynes and Mathey Series - Amy Griswold & Melissa Scott
Genre: Case Fic, Christmas, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Temporary Plant Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-09 10:31:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8887492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendrecarc/pseuds/pendrecarc
Summary: The urtica mordax was dead: to begin with.Lynes and Mathey negotiate the perils of the season.





	1. Stave I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [couldaughter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/couldaughter/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, couldaughter! I hope you like casefic with your holiday domesticity.
> 
> With sincere apologies to Mr. Dickens. No stinging nettles were harmed in the production of this fic.

The _urtica mordax_ was dead: to begin with.

The fact that it had withered in the first place was not so surprising. Julian kept his rooms in a state that guaranteed the odd fly—or two, or half a dozen—which was enough to supply a carnivorous nettle of moderate habits, but the plant _did_ require occasional watering, a task he completed diligently when there wasn’t anything more interesting on hand and left absently to Ned when he had better things to think about. So when Julian returned home one evening in late December at the conclusion of a long and absorbing case, during which Ned hadn’t even had time to stop in for a brandy, and found its shriveled tendrils drooping limply down the side of the sofa, his first thought was that this was only to be expected.

His second thought was not really a thought at all, but an odd pang of disquiet. As he’d pointed out to Mrs. Digby, the _urtica mordax_ wasn’t a pet. It was ridiculous to have grown fond of the thing and doubly ridiculous to feel guilty at having neglected it. Shaking this off, he stuffed the plant into a bin and shoved it out of sight behind his desk, then went for the square morocco-leather case in the sideboard.

Mixing the ink and scrawling out the enchantment was familiar enough that he could manage it even distracted and tired out of his mind: violet for dreamless, restorative sleep, slivers of gold for energy and restoration when he woke. By the time the paper had dissolved into his gin, he was half asleep already. He managed one swallow before a jaw-cracking yawn interrupted him. Leaving the glass still mostly full on the sideboard, he stumbled into bed and slept past noon the next day.

He’d intended to be up and busy first thing. There was the bill to be sent out for the last case, a matter of some urgency as Julian had been ignoring bills of his own for weeks, and appointments to schedule with prospective clients. Instead he found himself stumbling bleary-eyed into the street with a nick behind his ear where he’d cut himself shaving, with only a few hours of sunlight left in the day, having blown out the vacuum tube in his Napieric coffee device—a positive tragedy, not least because it had ruined the coffee—and having had a truly vicious row with his landlady over the mess and the noise.

His feet turned themselves by their own will toward the Commons. It was a foul day, with wet snow falling into grey and slushy streets, and the only cheerful things about it were the gaudy Christmas displays stuffed into half the storefront windows. Still, the prospect of seeing Ned raised his spirits, and when a pair of carolers sprang out at him just outside the door of Ned’s chambers with an enthusiastic “God rest ye merry gentlemen!” Julian managed to swallow down his instinctive curse and offer a brusque nod instead.

He closed the door behind him with relief, shaking warmth back into his hands. Peeling off his damp gloves, he looked up to see Miss Frost in conversation with another young woman.

“Oh, good afternoon, Mr. Lynes,” said Miss Frost. “Do you know when Mr. Mathey will be in?”

“He isn’t?”

“Not yet. I thought perhaps you might have—”

“No,” Julian interrupted, frowning, “we didn’t—“ He cut himself off, then changed direction. “That is, how should I know?”

“I thought perhaps,” Miss Frost repeated, a gleam of amusement in her eye, “you might have been kept out late together finishing the Marley case, and he might have mentioned to you that he planned not to come in until this afternoon. I see I was mistaken.”

“Yes,” Julian said, staring hard at her. She looked back up at him from her desk with a blandly professional smile. “About the second part, at least. We did finish up the Marley case. I expect he’ll give you a full account when he gets in, but I’ve no idea when that will be.” He looked from her to her guest. “Are you one of Mathey’s clients?”

She’d risen and was holding out her hand. She had a stylish air about her that owed more to good taste, he thought, than to means—her dress was of a fashionable cut, but the fabric was more practical than decorative, and Julian’s expert eye caught the carefully-concealed stitches that had closed a tear in the crook of one elbow. Probably born to a good family, was his assessment, but come down in the world since then.

She was peering at him as though trying to place him. Now he thought about it, taking her hand, her rather pretty face did seem familiar. “Mr. Lynes,” she said. “Ned’s friend from Oxford?”

Julian did his best to conceal a start. “Sophie?”

Her blue eyes widened in patent astonishment. He coughed, uncertain how to recover. They had not been on intimate terms, and Julian had not remembered her so much as he’d remembered Ned talking about her, which meant he couldn’t for the life of him bring her surname to mind. “That is, Miss—”

“Featherstone,” she said, a trifle stiffly. “That is, I was Miss Featherstone then. It is Mrs. Carroway now.”

That made it no less awkward, but the news that she had married released the small, shameful prick of apprehension Julian would have preferred to pretend he hadn’t felt. “I beg your pardon,” he said, then looked up with relief as the door opened once more. “Mathey!” _Thank god_ , he did not say aloud.

Ned appeared cold, wet, and rather sheepish. It was an appealing look on him. “Lynes, Miss Frost—good Lord, Sophie?”

“Ned,” said Mrs. Carroway, dropping Julian’s hand with alacrity. “It’s good to see you.”

“And to see you,” Ned replied, with a smile that was as sincere as it was surprised. “Lynes you know, of course—and you’ve met Miss Frost? Sophie and I were very good friends when I was at university.”

“Fellow birdwatching enthusiasts,” Julian put in, prompting a twitch at the corner of Ned’s mouth that might have been a smile or a warning frown. The twitch at the corner of Miss Frost’s mouth was certainly a smile.

Ned turned back to their visitor. “I hear I am to congratulate you. But that was, what—two, three years ago? It’s been an age.”

“You’ve no idea,” Mrs. Carroway said. Julian didn’t think that dry note to her voice had been in evidence at Oxford, and a moment later he thought he might have misheard it; her expression was pleasant enough. “And you’ve done well for yourself, I see. A metaphysician, exactly as you always wanted.”

Ned shrugged off the compliment along with his coat. “It’s a small practice, just barely off the ground.”

“Don’t let him be too modest,” Julian said. “He’s consulting for Scotland Yard now.”

“Oh, goodness,” Mrs. Carroway said, looking between him and Ned. Julian thought of skirts, conveniently caught in doors and on gate-posts, and suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. “On criminal matters?”

“Occasionally.”

“Oh,” she said again, and Julian revised his assessment of her a second time. This sounded like genuine hesitation, not coyness. “Well, I haven’t come about anything of that nature. At least, I don’t think I have.”

“You’re here about a job, then?” Ned said.

“I am. I have stumbled across a rather odd situation, and I suspect it may be metaphysical in nature. I hope you’ll be able to tell me.”

“I can certainly try.”

“If I may ask—” Mrs. Carroway’s cheeks darkened in much the same sort of blush she’d offered Ned back at Oxford, though for entirely different reasons. “I should like to know your rates up front. Due to the circumstances I’m about to relate, I’ve recently found myself between positions.”

An odd thing for a married woman to say. Julian took another look at the mended tear in her coat, then noted where he probably should have before the circles under her eyes. Before Ned could respond, Miss Frost had risen and reached for her own coat. “I think for an old friend of Mr. Mathey’s, we might demand you join us for a meal.” She smiled at Mrs. Carroway, quick and reassuring. “These gentlemen have owed me lunch at Christie’s for several months now, and somehow they’ve never found the time to make good on their promise.”

“An excellent idea,” Ned said at once. “If you don’t mind Lynes’ company, Sophie, I think you’ll find his presence valuable. He’s something of a specialist in odd situations.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Carroway said, and though she sounded unconvinced she allowed Miss Frost to take her by the arm and lead her outside, leaving Ned and Julian to follow in their wake.

It was really much too late for lunch, and still early for dinner, though in any case the meal was excellent. Julian’s interest was mostly in the coffee, but the hot food seemed to do Mrs. Carroway some good. She rallied as the soup course was removed, taking a moment to compose her thoughts. “I am here not only on my own behalf, but on my colleagues’ as well,” she said. “My former colleagues, that is.”

“Where were you employed?” Ned asked.

“At the Watterly Telegraph Company. Several of the colleagues I spoke of are still employed there. Others have been relieved of their positions. That happened to me two days ago. The reason given was inadequate performance.”

“The reason given?” Miss Frost asked. “You disagree, then.”

“No,” said Mrs. Carroway. She spoke very precisely; Julian thought it was out of embarrassment. “I was with Watterly for a little over three months. I believe I gave no cause for complaint at the beginning, but I was performing very poorly by the end. My speed and accuracy both suffered. I would have fired myself.” Her knife and fork had gone still on her plate.

“Had you been ill?” That was Ned, and very quietly.

“Not ill, exactly. Run down. I was not the only one. The work had become oddly exhausting. The floor supervisor said—” Her fingers tightened on the knife. “He said that was what came of hiring women.”

Miss Frost’s face was carefully expressionless. “Were there many women who were run down by the work?”

“Yes, but then a great many of the operators are women to begin with. I was in another telegraph office for over a year before I came to Watterly, Miss Frost. The work takes some skill and concentration. It does not bleed a person of energy until she is ready to faint at her desk, as some of us did.”

“I suppose this has already occurred to you,” Ned said, watching her face, “but what you describe sounds like a matter for a physician, not a metaphysician.”

“We have seen physicians. They’ve suggested nothing but overwork, which is _not_ —” She stopped herself with an effort. “But yes, that has occurred to me. It does not explain the smell.”

“The smell?” Julian broke in for the first time, leaning across the table.

“Yes. Like sulfur, but—not.” She turned to Ned. “I remember, once or twice, watching you work an an enchantment very quickly, and there was a smell just like that. And two years ago our cook tried a cantrip to warm a soup that had gone cold. It worked, but badly, and the kitchens reeked all that evening.”

“You think someone is working enchantments in the telegraph office,” Julian suggested. “And that has been making you ill?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Lynes. I don’t know the first thing about magic; that’s why I’m here. But I do know that smell, and I know a touch of it would hang about the air when we arrived every morning, and when I came home every evening I could still smell it on my clothes.”

Julian thought constant exposure to a stench like that could be enough to make anyone sick, but he held his tongue. Ned was nodding thoughtfully. “It sounds as though it bears investigation, at least. I can certainly look into it.”

Mrs. Carroway gave a quick nod. “I hoped you would. But as I said, your rates—”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Ned said easily. Julian resisted the urge to kick him under the table. Consulting with the Yard or not, his practice couldn’t survive on charity cases. “I’ll drop by tomorrow, see if anything strikes me.”

“I _can_ pay you,” Mrs. Carroway said, and Julian warmed a little to the insistence in her pretty blue eyes. “And I will, only it may be some time.”

“Mr. Mathey’s rates are quite reasonable,” Miss Frost assured her, “and he is accustomed to receiving his fees in installments. But he will need to better determine the nature of the work before he knows what to charge. Is there any more information you can give us?”

“Well—” She reached into her handbag and pulled out a small slip of stiff blue paper. “There is this. I don’t know if it signifies anything.” She set it in the center of the table, in front of Miss Frost. Ned’s shoulder brushed against his as they all leaned in to read.

It was a telegraph form, much like the hundreds or thousands Julian had seen in his life. He noted the Watterly name blazoned across the top, then the date—December 21st, two days before—and then read the body of the message in complete confusion. It was a series of meaningless letters and numbers, jumbled up in no order he could understand. “Is that some sort of operator’s shorthand?”

Mrs. Carroway shook her head. “I’ve no idea what it means. We get odd messages all the time, of course. Usually it’s just financial information, instructions for trading on the Exchange, that sort of thing—but there was one gentleman who would send out queer cables several times a day.” She smiled, and the last several years fell away until she looked as fresh-faced as she ever had when Ned handed her into a punt at Oxford. “Eventually I learned what it was about—he was a chess enthusiast, carrying out a dozen games at once with friends across the country, and each of the cables was instructions for the next move. So, as I say, we’re used to odd messages. But I had never seen so many of them before I came to Watterly, and I couldn’t for the life of me tell you what they are, Mr. Lynes.” She indicated the form on the table. “By the time I left Watterly, I saw more messages like this than messages I could understand.”

This was the first thing about the whole business that had really intrigued Julian. He reached for the form and read it through again. “Odd indeed,” he said, half under his breath. “May I keep this?”

“Of course.”

Julian folded the form and slipped it into his pocket. When he looked up again, he found Ned watching him warmly. He raised his eyebrows in question.

“You’ve caught Mr. Lynes’ attention,” Ned told Mrs. Carroway. “We’d be glad to take the case.”

The rest of the meal passed in idle chatter. Mrs. Carroway seemed able to let go of her preoccupation now that she had said what she came to say; she brightened visibly when Ned asked after her brothers, still living in Oxfordshire with their families. Julian noticed, however, how deftly she sidestepped any conversational avenue that might have touched on her husband. This seemed an established habit, and it made him curious, though professional investigator or no he had more tact than to ask about it outright. Besides, it would only have irritated Ned.

In the meantime, Mrs. Carroway was finding acquaintances in common with Miss Frost. “Why, when were you at the Simmons Telegraphy School?”

“Shortly before I found employment with Mr. Mathey,” Miss Frost replied. “It seemed a useful skill, but in the end I preferred the typewriter. And at the Commons, of course, I have some use for a metaphysical education. One doesn’t find that in a telegraph office—or so I should have said before today.”

“Have you gone to university, then?” Mrs. Carroway asked, leaning forward in sudden interest. “You must be frightfully clever. I know there are women’s colleges, but I never met any of the scholars.”

“I did,” said Miss Frost. Usually imperturbable, she looked slightly taken aback to be the object of such fascinated scrutiny. “Though our colleges award no degrees, of course. As to cleverness, metaphysical skill is more a matter of effort and training than inherent talent. Each of us has metaphysical energy to be drawn on, though not all of us have the chance to learn how. I was fortunate in my opportunities.”

“Talent plays _some_ role, surely,” Julian said. He was thinking of the way Ned had taken to his training like a fish to water, of the easy elegance of his spells, in contrast to Julian’s own more workmanlike competence.

“About as much as it does in criminal investigation, I imagine,” said Miss Frost, flashing him a quick smile. “If you’ll forgive the observation, Mr. Lynes, you have a a prodigious memory, a natural talent for asking the right questions, and a way of gathering information into a coherent picture where others might see only confusion. But it seems to me a great deal of your work is a matter of time and effort.”

“You’re right about that. Asking questions is all very well and good, but you have to be in the right place to ask them.”

“Which is why,” Miss Frost said, folding her hands on the table, “with Mr. Mathey’s permission, tomorrow morning I will present myself at the Watterly Telegraph Company and apply for one of their open positions.”

Mrs. Carroway started, Ned frowned, and Julian regarded her for a moment, then grinned. “An excellent proposition.”

“Hold on,” Ned said, “that won’t be necessary. If I stop by tomorrow—”

“You’ll put your head in the door, walk around for a few minutes, and agree with Mrs. Carroway that it smells of enchantments,” said Miss Frost. “And then will be politely asked to leave, rather than linger where other people are working. I, on the other hand, will need to speak to the floor supervisor and meet the other operators, and if all goes well—which I expect it shall—will be offered a job. They may even ask me to start immediately, which would be ideal for our purposes. They must be shorthanded, if they’re letting go so many of their operators.”

“I might just as easily apply for the position,” Ned pointed out.

“You might,” Miss Frost agreed, “but you won’t as easily get it. Have you ever operated a telegraph? I thought not. Mrs. Carroway, do they use Morse code, or Baudot’s system?”

“Neither,” Mrs. Carroway replied. “They have their own system entirely. It seems inefficient, when no-one else knows how to use it, but they’ve these odd new machines, and they’re terribly proud of them. Not to worry—if you’re a fast typist they’ll be able to train you quickly enough.”

“Excellent,” said Mrs. Frost. “Then I believe that’s settled. Shall we?”

Ned paid the bill, and as they all braced themselves for the chill outside he let Mrs. Carroway take his arm. It occurred to Julian belatedly that he ought to follow suit, and turning to Miss Frost he extended his elbow. She gave him a new variation of the amused look she seemed to favor where Julian was concerned, then accepted the gesture.

He’d told Ned once that he liked her, and it was true. He appreciated self-sufficient people. Until recently he’d have said he appreciated self-sufficient men—Ned’s habit of deciding on a course of action, then pursuing it whether or not he had any help at his back had been one of the first things that drew Julian to him—but on reflection he thought this might apply to women, as well. Miss Frost was good company. She was quick and straightforward when it came to her work, reserved when it came to anything else, and she seemed not to want anything in particular from Julian or to expect him to want anything from her. Besides this, she seemed to like Ned, which as far as Julian was concerned showed excellent taste.

Ned and Mrs. Carroway had been walking some paces ahead of them, deep in conversation, but now they paused to let a woman struggling with an armful of packages pass by.

“That reminds me,” said Miss Frost, as she and Julian came up behind them, “I shall have to finish my Christmas shopping at once if I’m to have my references gathered for tomorrow. Mr. Mathey, would you be so good as to write me a letter? If you leave it in your chambers, I can collect it before I go to Watterly’s.”

“Of course,” Ned said. “I’ll be sure to recommend your creativity and sense of initiative in glowing terms.”

“It is a telegraph office, Mr. Mathey,” she said reprovingly, though Julian thought she looked pleased. “I think hard work and reliability would have more appeal.”

Julian’s thoughts had stalled on her earlier comment. “Your Christmas shopping?”

“Yes,” she said, mouth twisting in distaste. “The shops will be horribly busy, I suppose, but I don’t know when else I’ll have time—and I really must find something Mother will appreciate this year. Though not, as she’s certain to remind me, as much as she would appreciate a son-in-law. Mrs. Carroway, I believe we need the same omnibus. Would you care to join me? ”

“Happy hunting,” Ned said as the women were swept up in the crowd.

Julian stared after them. A Christmas gift for her mother—of course. That was what one did for friends and family. And, it was occurring to him slowly, for lovers.

A gloved hand caught him by the elbow—Ned, turning to face him. “All right, then?” It was pitched just too low for passersby to hear.

Julian blinked. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Don’t be disingenuous,” Ned said. His grip on Julian’s elbow tightened, but not unpleasantly. “That row we had, back when we…established an ongoing arrangement. You mentioned the girls at Oxford, Sophie in particular.” His eyes searched Julian’s face, just this side of wary. “You should know there’s no reason to be jealous.”

“I do know that,” Julian replied, a little impatiently, but with perfect honesty. Other than that quick, instinctive pang on recognizing Mrs. Carroway—and he could hardly be blamed for that, as relentlessly as she’d pursued Ned and and as willingly as Ned had let himself be pursued—it hadn’t occurred to him to doubt Ned’s affections.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it. Ned would certainly have considered Christmas gifts, it was the sort of thing he did. He’d probably sent packages home already, with well-chosen presents inside and a dutiful letter to his mother. He almost certainly had something for Julian, too, and Julian had—

A dead _urtica mordax_. He winced, then tried to hide it by saying, “Come join me for a nightcap.”

“It’s barely five o’clock,” Ned said, smiling. At least he didn’t seem concerned any longer.

“Yes,” Julian agreed, “but the sun’s already down.”

Ned let his hand slip from Julian’s elbow. “I can’t fault your logic, but I do have a letter to write, and I barely looked in at my chambers. Give me an hour, maybe two?”

“All right. Don’t keep me waiting.” They were in public, and so nothing could be said aloud, but Julian knew how to let his eyes do the talking.

So did Ned, for that matter. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

That gave Julian time to return home and rifle through the post that had been piling up near the door. More bills, and nothing at all of interest. What _was_ of interest was the paper from the day before, which he’d barely had time to skim before rushing out for the conclusion of the Marley case. Something had been bothering him through most of their meal, and now he had it: an article on page three, about the Watterly Locomotive Company’s astonishing new prototype.

He read it three times, and then his eyes lit on an advertisement at the bottom of the page for Christmas novelties. He looked back up to the date at the top of the page: December 22. And today, of course, was the 23rd, and Christmas itself was two days away.

Gifts hadn’t come up the year before. One didn’t, necessarily, give gifts to a friend, even a friend you happened to be fucking on a semi-regular basis. Then he stopped in his tracks, remembering the Christmas before _that_ , when he’d been with Lennox, who had presented him with a marvelous silk dressing gown.

Julian hadn’t gotten Lennox anything. At the time it hadn’t seemed important, and Lennox hadn’t minded. In retrospect, Julian thought he probably hadn’t expected any better.

He was still turning this over when Ned arrived. “Good lord,” he said, eyes traveling around the room. “What’s happened here?”

“I had an argument with my coffee machine.”

“I see that.”

“And with Mrs. Digby,” Julian confessed.

“I see that, too. Her housekeeping leaves something to be desired, but I’d at least have expected her to clean up the glass. Sweep that up, then, and I’ll find the dustbin.”

In an effort to prove he was, in fact, capable of being obliging, Julian did as he was told, so he was on his knees picking out shards from behind the sofa when Ned let out a low exclamation. “Don’t tell me you argued with the _urtica mordax_ , too.”

“Damn,” Julian said forcefully. “No—sorry. That was a mistake. I forgot to water it.”

Ned walked over to him, bin in his hands, peering down at the desiccated nettle. “Pity. I was getting fond of it.”

“I forget things,” Julian said. He did not say it from between gritted teeth, because he had carefully unclenched his jaw before speaking. “You know that. I forget them all the time.”

Ned leaned one hip against the sofa. “You never forget anything. You remember every idiotic thing I ever said or didn’t say at Oxford.” He sounded amused rather than cross, but Julian was not in the mood.

“I forget things,” he repeated. “I remember minutia—idiotic things you say, passing phrases in newspaper articles, inconsistencies in witness statements—but ask me to water a plant twice a week, and I won’t do it.”

Ned knelt down beside him. Julian wanted to tell him to be careful of the glass, but he’d just gotten a shard of it stuck in the ball of his own thumb and was busy picking it out with his teeth. He spat it into his palm and sighed.

“I’m well aware of your flaws,” Ned said. “And I never asked you to water the plant. I have, though, asked you to stop mixing those cantrips.”

Julian followed the direction of his glance. The glass of gin stood on the table by the sofa, the liquid stained a pale lavender with the ink of his enchantment. “I was exhausted last night.”

“I know. I was, too. Came late to work today, maybe you noticed.” He was smiling, gently and ruefully, and suddenly Julian wanted nothing more than to kiss that look off his face—and so he did.

Then he reached over to pour the gin into the dustbin along with the _urtica mordax_ and the shattered glass.

“Happy?” Julian asked, pointedly.

“Not yet,” Ned said, a challenge in his eyes.

Julian felt a smirk pulling at his lips. “Still want that nightcap?”

“Not really.”

“Good. Neither do I.”


	2. Stave II

Julian woke early the next morning to a low, familiar hissing sound in the next room and the growling of his own stomach. They’d been far too busy for dinner the night before.

He rolled out of bed and pulled on his dressing gown—the very one Lennox had given him two Christmases ago, now a little worn at the elbows and stained with ink and machine oil at the wrists, and he resolved to find something for Ned later that day. Ned himself was fussing over the burner.

“I’ve boiled some eggs,” he said as Julian walked into the parlor. He’d dressed but not shaved, and looked deliciously rumpled in yesterday’s shirt and a night’s growth of stubble. “I didn’t attempt the coffee machine, though.”

“It needs a new vacuum chamber,” Julian said. “Sorry, we’ll have to skip it. I might have some tea around here.” He found a tin behind the morocco-leather case. It had gone a bit stale, and there was no milk, but Ned claimed not to mind. Soon the room was filled with the smell of brewing tea and the soft cracking sounds as they rolled the eggs between their hands and peeled off the shells. It was…comfortable. Domestic. Julian rather thought he liked it. To test the hypothesis a little further, he said, “My razor’s yours, if you want a shave.”

“Thanks,” Ned said, “but I’ve time to run home before I go back to my chambers. Besides, I shouldn’t stay too late—Mrs. Digby might notice.”

Julian couldn’t argue, but he could feel disappointed. He covered it with a gulp of tea. His cup had been resting on one of the newspapers scattered around the parlor, and it left a damp brown ring around one of the headlines. “Oh,” he said suddenly, “I’ve just remembered. Look here.” He handed the paper over, and Ned scanned the article curiously.

“ ‘The Watterly Locomotive Company unveils its new steamless engine,’ ” he read aloud. “Clever of them. How do you suppose that works?”

“No idea. I like mechanics, but that sort of innovation’s beyond me. It was the name that caught my eye.”

“Yes, that is odd, isn’t it? It could be coincidence.”

“It could,” Julian said, “but the railroads are heavy users of the telegraph lines, so the industries aren’t unrelated.” He drained his tea while Ned finished the article. “They’re awfully close-mouthed about how they’ve done it. I suppose they stand to make a lot of money if nobody else can manage it. I’ve never heard of anything like. Engines are getting more efficient all the time, but this is years ahead of anyone else.” Ned looked thoughtful. Julian watched him for a moment, then asked, “Could an engine run on magic?”

“I was just wondering that. Yes, of course, you could enchant an engine. The trouble is the scale. A single, experienced metaphysician might be able to get something the size of a railway locomotive moving, but I’d be astonished if they could keep it up for any length of time. It takes too much metaphysical energy. You’d need to cast a circle with at least a few others to power an enchantment like that.” Julian flinched at the reminder of Farrell and the last time they’d encountered the workings of a metaphysical circle, but Ned was deep in thought and didn’t seem to notice. “And you’d need continuous infusions of energy to keep it going. Short of a circle of metaphysicians onboard, working for the entire journey, I don’t think it could be done. But I’m not a metaphysicist. There might be a way I haven’t thought of.”

Julian considered stopping in to see Oppenshaw, the metaphysicist they’d consulted on the Farrell case, on a matter of idle curiosity like this. On balance, he thought he’d almost prefer to leave the question unanswered.

Ned had set down his cup and was shrugging on his coat. “Stop by early this afternoon, would you? Miss Frost said she’d be in by lunchtime with a report.”

“All right,” Julian said. The collar of Ned’s coat was bent backwards; without a thought, he stepped in to straighten it, and finding himself in a convenient position for it he pressed a kiss to Ned’s lips. “Have a good morning.”

Ned had stopped in the act of pulling on his gloves, and he was staring at Julian with an unreadable expression. Julian felt an odd flush rise to his face and covered it by picking up the teacups. “Have a good morning,” Ned echoed, and was gone.

Julian was not expecting any clients that morning. This was less than ideal from a business perspective, but it gave him the opportunity to finish reviewing the papers he’d been neglecting during their last case and to reread the telegraph form Mrs. Carroway had given him. This was only two lines of text. As an exercise in cryptography, that made it more difficult; he’d have preferred something much longer to work with. Still, he’d given some study to codes and cyphers, and he thought he might be able to make some headway.

When the clock struck eleven, he looked up with a headache and no sense of progress, as well as the realization that he was running out of time to run errands and meet Ned at his chambers. He went first to buy a new vacuum chamber for his coffee machine, then found himself lingering outside shop windows, not quite certain what he was looking for. Then his thoughts turned with a jolt back to Ned, and his gift, and the fact that there wasn’t one. And what could Julian buy for him, anyhow? Everything that occurred to him was too practical, or too expensive, or too meaningless.

It was well after noon. He gave up and headed for the Commons.

He met Miss Frost at the door. “Good day, Mr. Lynes.”

“And to you. Did you receive an interview?”

“I received a position,” she replied, with a matter-of-factness that could not quite hide her sense of satisfaction. “They asked me to start immediately.”

“Oh, well done,” Julian said, with unfeigned admiration.

“It wasn’t terribly difficult,” she admitted. “Once they saw I could type, their decision was made. I think they’re hard-pressed for workers. It’s no surprise, from what Mrs. Carroway said.”

She had her hand on the doorknob. Before she could turn it, Julian said suddenly, “Miss Frost, what did you find for your mother?”

She paused, looking at him with surprise. “For Christmas? A beaded purse. Entirely impractical, but then sometimes that’s rather the point.”

“Ah,” he said, and something of his thoughts must have shown on his face, because she smiled.

“Were you hoping for gift ideas, Mr. Lynes? For your own mother, or…?”

“Certainly not,” he said. Quite aside from the fact that his mother was dead, the very thought of buying any of his relatives a purse made the imagination revolt; and obviously that wouldn’t do for Ned. “Never mind.”

She gave him a look that was entirely too knowing, then led him into the chambers.

They filled her in on the article Julian had found, then took her report in Ned’s office. “I’m to return by one o’clock for training. I haven’t met everyone yet, of course, but I did get a good look around the place. I can see exactly what Mrs. Carroway meant by the smell. It was faint, but quite distinct if you know what you’re looking for.”

“Did you see any evidence of who might be casting enchantments?” Ned asked.

She shook her head. “None at all. I’ll keep an close eye out this afternoon, whenever I can spare a moment from training. Their telegraph machines are the strangest design. It’ll take some work to learn the system.”

“Keep an eye out for those odd messages, too,” Julian said. “If you get the chance to save any of the forms, they could be some help. I’ve been trying to decrypt the one we have, and it would be much easier with more material. If I don’t make any progress, I have some contacts we can ask.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Miss Frost replied. “Telegrams are meant to be confidential, of course, but I expect I can slip one or two into my purse when no-one is looking.” Miss Frost’s purse was practical in the extreme—sturdy and sizeable, without a bead to be seen, and quite large enough to conceal a few telegraph forms, not to mention her wand. “I’ll be by after closing today. I mentioned to Mrs. Carroway that she might stop in as well, so we can discuss our findings in more detail.”

“Good. Thank you for your help on this. It’s not likely to be lucrative, but Sophie’s in a bad position, and anything I can do to help—”

“What position, exactly?” Julian asked, thinking back to everything he’d noticed over their meal the day before. “I’d hazard a guess her marriage isn’t a happy one, and if she’s seeking employment herself—”

“She left her husband,” Miss Frost said bluntly. Ned was looking grave, but not surprised—Mrs. Carroway must have mentioned this in on the walk back from Christie’s. “She told me yesterday on the omnibus. I shouldn’t bring it up in front of her, though.”

“I do have some sense of tact,” Julian said in mild protest. “Are there children?”

“No, mercifully,” said Miss Frost.

“What happened?” It was no small thing, for a wife to leave her husband. She must have had good reason.

“Mysterious telegrams are one thing,” Miss Frost said very crisply, “but you must allow me to preserve _some_ confidences, Mr. Lynes.”

Ned smiled. “Good work, Miss Frost. I should add that I don’t expect you to work tomorrow—but is the telegraph office open on Christmas?”

“They are, and they’ve asked me to be there. I truly don’t mind—it’s an opportunity to postpone the joys of my family’s company.”

“Feel free to blame your unreasonable employer, if your mother complains,” Ned said.

“I had fully intended to,” Miss Frost agreed, and she took her leave.

Ned stretched back in his chair with a sigh. “What have you got on for the afternoon, Lynes?”

“Less than I’d like,” Julian said gloomily. “Business is at a bit of a standstill. I thought I might look into the Watterly Locomotive Company connection, if I’ve time.”

“That can’t hurt. Thank you for your help, as well. I know it’s a lot to ask.”

“You know how I like a good puzzle,” Julian said, and Ned smiled, but it wasn’t his usual open look of affection or amusement. Julian thought he seemed hesitant and couldn’t account for it, but neither was he sure how to ask.

Tracking down the history of the Watterly companies was not difficult, but it did take time. The sun had long set when Julian finished, and he turned back toward the Common with the realization that he still had found nothing for Ned’s gift. It was Christmas Eve, and he’d just about run out of time. The air had thickened, and the gas lamps struggled against the fog. The lights in the shops blazed in defiant cheer, illuminating the holly and berries strung up around each windowpane.

Julian walked slowly along, considering and discarding each shop. Ned’s taste in literature was endearing but inexplicable, so the bookstore was no good; he was well-supplied with metaphysical inks already; the mahogany wand case inlaid with silver was magnificent, but not really Ned’s style, and anyhow Julian could never afford it.

He turned away from a display of glittering cufflinks— _cufflinks_ , for God’s sake—and went back to the Commons.

Mrs. Carroway was already there, talking with Ned, who looked up quickly as Julian came in. He went so far as to rise and take Julian’s coat, hand lingering at his shoulder just a trifle longer than necessary. Julian didn’t mind this in the least, but it was unexpected.

He nodded to Mrs. Carroway. She seemed more at ease than she had the day before and regarded him with positive friendliness. “Ned has just been telling me how helpful you’ve been, Mr. Lynes.”

“Mathey exaggerates,” Julian said. “I’ve made no headway at all on that telegram. I did get a little farther on the Watterly companies—has he told you about the steamless engine?—and they’re owned by the same parent company, that much is certain, but I don’t know if that does us any good.” He looked about the room. “Is Miss Frost here?”

“No,” Ned said, frowning. “I’d have expected her by now, too. Do go on, though. What did you find?”

“Other than what I’ve said, very little. The Watterly Locomotive Company’s been in business since the ‘sixties. They’re well established. Innovative, but in small ways—this new engine’s the first development of this size they’ve announced. The first development of this size the industry’s seen in decades, for that matter. The Telegraph Company’s quite new. The office you worked in, Mrs. Carroway, opened less than a year ago.”

“Why on earth would they invest in an entirely new business when they should be focused on their new engine?” Ned asked, and Julian shook his head.

“My question precisely. It seems unlikely, but I’ve no idea what it means.”

All three of them looked up at the sound of the front door, and a moment later Miss Frost arrived, her cheeks pinched with cold but her eyes bright with suppressed triumph. Without a word of greeting, or even bothering to remove her coat, she marched up to Ned’s desk and set her purse down in the very center. It landed with a heavy thump.

“Good evening,” she said. “Mr. Mathey, Mr. Lynes. Mrs. Carroway. I hope you’ve all had productive afternoons.”

“I take it you have,” Ned said. “Don’t keep us in suspense, Miss Frost.”

“Very well.” With a motion just too brisk to be called a flourish, she opened the purse. “First, Mr. Lynes, I’ve brought you that material you asked for.” She produced half a dozen telegraph forms, spreading them out neatly across the desk. “Several of these are duplicates, which is curious.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Carroway said, bending her head over the desk. “That happened quite frequently. We’d see the same message coming through, sometimes with slight variations.”

“But more importantly, I think I may be able to help us interpret them. I spent the whole afternoon training on those telegraph machines they use, and I agree with you, Mrs. Carroway: it makes no sense to manufacture their own patented machines with an entirely new system. Imagine the expense, not to mention the need for each of their operators to learn the codes—I could understand if it made the operation faster, but as far as I can tell the Baudot system is much better designed.” She paused for breath, and possibly for effect. “It almost seems as though they’ve designed their telegraph code for another purpose entirely.”

“Go on,” Ned said.

“It’s a thirty-six key system, Mr. Mathey.”

“Well, surely that makes sense,” Julian said. “Twenty-six letters, plus ten numeric digits—”

“You’d think so,” said Mrs. Carroway, shaking her head, “but it’s not nearly so logical. There are odd patterns you need to memorize. Miss Frost is right, it’s terribly inefficient, and the other systems manage with far fewer keys.”

Ned was staring fixedly at Miss Frost. “How are the keys arranged?”

“In a square,” Miss Frost said, as though this had some deeper meaning. Ned broke into a wide smile, and then Julian had it.

“The metaphysical alphabet?” 

“Precisely,” said Miss Frost.

Mrs. Carroway’s eyes widened. “So the enchantments I was smelling—”

“Are coming from the telegraph machines themselves.” She took out another piece of paper, unfolding it to reveal a square diagram with six columns and six rows. “I’ve sketched out the layout. Correct me if I’ve made any mistakes, Mrs. Carroway. You can see how it would work, Mr. Mathey—the square of the Sun here, in this pattern—” Her finger darted over the diagram.

“Yes, of course—”

“And those odd messages,” Julian interrupted, “they might not mean anything in English, but if you rewrite them in the metaphysical alphabet—”

“I didn’t have time to verify that,” said Miss Frost, “but I suspect we’d find they’re sigils.”

Ned’s brows had drawn together in furious thought. “It could work. Though why anyone would choose to do magic that way—these messages. How many of them were being sent out from the Watterly Company’s office, and how many were incoming?”

“They were all outgoing messages,” said Mrs. Carroway. “Every single one I saw. Does that matter?”

“It would, yes, depending on what they were intended to do. And it explains a great deal. As Miss Frost mentioned yesterday, every person has a store of metaphysical energy, and some of that energy is necessary to perform any enchantment. If you and the other operators at Watterly were typing these messages, and if they work as we’re beginning to suspect they do, I’m not at all surprised at the exhaustion you described.” 

“You mean I’ve been performing magic all this time?” Mrs. Carroway said, blinking. “But what sort of magic?”

“We’ll have to decipher the messages to determine that,” said Miss Frost. “I think you had better help, if you still remember the codes—we’ll need to know the patterns to type out in order to understand the sigils, and I haven’t memorized the system yet.”

“Of course.” Mrs. Carroway’s face had lit up. “I can do that at once. I must say, I don’t at all like the idea that I’ve been used to cast enchantments without being told about it.”

Julian shook his head. “I don’t blame you. Especially if you’ve lost your job over it.”

“It’s quite illegal,” Ned said decisively. “No person can be involved in or subjected to enchantment without their consent, whatever the intent of the magic. But I do think we’d better try to work out that intent before I bring this to Scotland Yard. The mechanism, too, if we can. The metaphysicists will have a field day.”

“I think I may be able to help with that,” said Miss Frost, reaching again into her purse. This time she pulled out a curious, heavy device—a small brass frame with a pair of cylinders on either side of it.

Julian recognized it at once. “That’s an electromagnet. Did you get it off one of the telegraph machines?”

“Yes,” Miss Frost replied, wiping a bit of machine oil from her gloves. “I unscrewed it from the desk while everyone was packing up at the end of the day—I don’t think anyone noticed.”

“The sigil for ‘release’, I suppose?” Ned asked.

“Yes, with a variant on ‘around’ for the screws themselves, and—”

Julian felt this was rather missing the point. “But why the electromagnet?”

“Because I had cast _another_ enchantment already, looking for a source of magic, and everything pointed to this.” She handed it to Julian. “You take an interest in mechanical devices, don’t you, Mr. Lynes?”

“Yes,” Julian said, “though I don’t recall mentioning it.”

“Oh, Mr. Mathey’s told me all about it,” she said. “At some length. On several occasions.”

Ned had gone rather red, and now he coughed. “Would you have a look at it, Lynes? See if there’s anything out of the ordinary? I’d bring it straight by the metaphysicists, but they’ll have closed up by now. We can try them tomorrow. I don’t think Oppenshaw knows what holidays are. He’s bound to be in.”

Julian nodded, already examining the electromagnet with interest. “I’m not at all certain what to look for, but I’ll do what I can.”

“Good. In the meantime, I suppose we’d better get a start on decrypting these messages. But that can wait for another day. I’m sure you have plans, Sophie.”

She’d been looking much happier and more energetic, the discussion and the prospect of being useful taking years off her face. Now that energy faded. “Nothing of any importance. If I may take them home, I can write out the patterns for each of them tonight.”

“If you can spare the time,” Miss Frost said unexpectedly, “you’d much better come home with me. The work will go faster that way, if you show me the pattern of the keystrokes and I interpret the sigils.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Carroway said, faltering, “but I would hate to intrude.”

“Nonsense. You’d be more than welcome. My mother is always pleased to have guests, and I am always pleased to have a distraction at the dinner table.” She offered a brief smile, and Mrs. Carroway visibly brightened.

As they left, Julian tucked the electromagnet under his arm, and without any need for discussion he and Ned both set off together toward Coptic Street. “I’ve bought a replacement vacuum chamber,” he said, “so I think I can offer you coffee tomorrow. If you’re staying, that is.”

“With that sort of inducement, how could I refuse?”

Julian snorted.

He fixed the coffee machine while Ned watched with mild interest, then set the electromagnet beside it. “I suppose the first thing to do it test it,” he said. “If I had an electric lightbulb around, that would be ideal, but I think I can make this work.” He fiddled for a moment with the wires, then turned the machine on. Nothing happened.

“Is it broken?” Ned asked.

“It looks intact, but—can you try that enchantment Miss Frost mentioned, to look for the source of any magic? Perhaps it’s not the electricity we should be paying attention to.”

“Of course.” Ned drew out his wand, unfocused his eyes, and then moved his hand swiftly. He frowned in concentration. “There’s definitely some sort of enchantment working on it. Quite a strong one, too. It just doesn’t seem to be doing anything. Let me try once more—and perhaps if you turn the machine on again?”

Julian flipped the switch. Before Ned could so much as raise his wand, the coffee machine exploded.

Julian sprang back from the table, knocking over the bin with the remains of the _urtica mordax_. Ned cursed, eyes wide, and sketched out several more sigils too rapidly for Julian to follow. The spurt of orange flame died down, revealing a twisted, smoking coffee machine, the new vacuum chamber blown to pieces just like the last one. The electromagnet itself was perfectly intact.

“Well,” Julian said, when he’d got his breath back, “that was unexpected.”

Ned let out a shaky laugh. “I think we’d best leave further investigation to the metaphysicists.”

“Is it non-conforming magic, then?”

“No, I don’t think so—but very powerful, clearly, and until I know how it’s meant to work, I don’t think experimenting is a good idea, if only for your landlady’s sake.”

Julian looked up and noted the scorch mark spattered across the ceiling. Mrs. Digby would never let him hear the end of this. He sighed, then righted the bin, remnants of gin and dried leaves sloshing around in the bottom. “I may have to rescind that offer of coffee, after all.” Ned grinned, bright and familiar, and Julian found himself saying very quickly and quite without meaning to, “I haven’t gotten you anything for Christmas.”

Ned stared at him. Then he said, “I didn’t expect you to.”

That was not, in fact, at all reassuring. “It _is_ expected, Mathey. Miss Frost was buying gifts for her mother. Did you send presents to your family?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“And did you get anything for me?”

“Yes,” Ned said, “but not because I wanted anything in return. And when did you start caring about holidays in the first place, Lynes?”

“The point,” Julian said, “is that I didn’t think of it until just yesterday. And now I can’t even offer you coffee.”

“I don’t mind about the coffee,” Ned said.

“You will in the morning. _I_ will in the morning. And I’ve killed the damned _urtica mordax_.”

“Is this what you’ve been worried about?” Ned asked in surprise. “Here I’ve thought all the time it was Sophie.”

Julian resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I told you I wasn’t jealous. And why did you think I was worried?”

“You’ve clearly had something on your mind. And—” Ned was blushing again, just a little. He had the sort of complexion where it showed. Julian loved that, though he’d never say so aloud. “This morning, when I left, you kissed me. You’ve never done that before.”

“I kiss you regularly, Mathey, and if you’re inclined to forget it—”

“Not like that,” Ned said seriously. “Not just for it’s own sake, in passing, when there’s no chance of following through.”

“Did you mind?”

“No,” Ned said at once. “It was—comfortable. Ordinary.”

“That sounds perilously close to ‘dull’.”

“That’s not what I meant. I want kissing you to be ordinary. I understand that’s one of the perils of a relationship, and to tell the truth I rather like the idea.” Ned reached for him across the table. He smelled of smoke and sulfur and hair oil, and his hand was warm and sure at the back of Julian’s neck. “And so we’re both clear on the matter, I like that a great deal better than Christmas presents, or remembering to water the plants, or whatever else you think you’re expected to do. I can live without the coffee, and I can stay the night, if you want me to.”

“I always want you to stay,” Julian said. It came out with surprising ease, and he was rewarded with Ned’s sharp intake of breath. They rattled the table between them, sending the electromagnet sliding off it and into the bin. Ned tried to pull away, but Julian kept hold of him. “Never mind that.”

“We should take care with it.”

“It’ll keep until morning,” Julian said, and Ned gave in without further protest.


	3. Stave III

Julian woke far earlier than he’d planned, tangled in the sheets with a happy lassitude in his limbs. There was a gentle tickle at the base of his skull. “Mathey,” he groaned into his pillow, “it’s not that I don’t appreciate the thought, but if you could wait just another hour or two—”

“Mmm?” The groggy question came from entirely the wrong direction, and Julian froze. His eyes snapped open to show Ned on the other side of the bed, still mostly asleep, his hands chastely at his sides. Which meant that whatever was stroking the back of his hair—

He slapped frantically at his neck, and something _bit_ him.

Julian let out a strangled yelp, shooting up in bed. Ned pushed himself up onto one elbow. “Quiet!” he said in sleepy alarm, “someone will hear—what on earth’s the matter?”

Julian’s fingers had fastened around something long and fibrous. It twisted in his grasp, and he reached frantically to turn up the gas.

“Good Lord,” Ned said, staring.

It was the _urtica mordax_ , squirming and coiling and very much alive.

“That—is impossible,” Julian said, then bit his lip against another yell as the nettle protested his tight grip.

Julian threw on his dressing gown, this time quite without guilt, and stumbled into the parlor with Ned at his heels. It was the same scene of destruction they’d left the night before, now with the added touch of a long string of leaves and broken glass where the _urtica mordax_ had pulled itself out of the bin and across the floor to the bedroom.

He walked slowly over to the bin and picked it up. Aside from the ruined vacuum chamber and the smell of dried gin, the electromagnet lay inside. He touched it gingerly and snatched his fingers back. It was hot to the touch.

“What do you suppose happened?” Ned asked, coming up beside him.

Julian rubbed a hand across his eyes, still gritty with sleep. “Let me think. The electromagnet—clearly something’s set off the magic in it.”

“And that brought it back to life?”

“Is that even a metaphysical possibility?”

“Theoretically,” Ned said, looking down into the bin in awe and confusion. “Unlikely with organisms as complex as animals, mind you, and certainly not with humans. But plants are simpler. I’ll introduce you to one of the metaphysical botanists at the Commons, he can explain it better. But it’s just a theory, and the amount of energy it would take—”

“Wait,” Julian said, holding a hand up. He really hadn’t gotten enough sleep for this. “Just a moment, let me think. We agreed yesterday a locomotive engine _could_ be powered by enchantment, but you’d need multiple metaphysicians working round the clock to do it.”

“Yes?”

“If you had a group of people working all hours of the day. Not trained metaphysicians, mind you, but people with an average amount of metaphysical energy, and you had them in sufficient quantities—and you had them pouring that energy into a convenient receptacle—”

“Into an electromagnet, for example,” Ned said, catching on.

“Exactly.”

“Then—yes, I think if you set things up correctly—and I’d need Oppenshaw to confirm but I think this might just work—you could collect metaphysical energy for later use.”

Julian held out the bin. “ _Viola_. A metaphysical battery.”

“That’s—extraordinary. And completely immoral, not to mention illegal, if they were hiring telegraph operators like Sophie just to wear them out and drain them of magic.” Ned looked back toward the bedroom door, where the _urtica mordax_ had begun to drag itself back across the floor. “But how—”

Julian sank into a chair, a grin spreading across his face. “Oh, of course. It was that enchantment.”

“What?”

“The one I cast two nights ago, the one you were scolding me for. It was for restorative sleep and renewed energy.”

“And you poured it into the bin,” Ned said, beginning to laugh, “right on top of the nettle, and then fed it all the metaphysical energy it could possibly need—”

“There,” Julian said triumphantly, “let’s see you complain about my cantrips again, now they’ve solved a case for you.”

“Don’t gloat, Lynes,” Ned returned, but he was still smiling. “It doesn’t suit you.” He shook his head wonderingly. “This is extraordinary. I’ve half a mind to go knock Oppenshaw up at once. What time is it?” 

“Much too early.” Julian gave in to a yawn, then bent to pick up the _urtica mordax_ and return it to its usual place. A tendril wound itself around his wrist, almost, he thought, in affection. “I told you you’d regret the coffee.”

_***_

They waited until the earliest decent hour to return to the Commons. Oppenshaw was not in yet, so Ned led the way back to his chambers, where they found Miss Frost and Mrs. Carroway already waiting.

Mrs. Carroway sprang up as they entered, the telegraph slips clutched in her hand. “Oh good, you’re here,” she exclaimed. “Cordelia’s worked everything out.”

“It _was_ something of a mutual effort,” said Miss Frost.

“Good morning,” Ned said, bemused, “and Merry Christmas. Were you working all night?”

Mrs. Carroway did indeed look as though she’d missed some sleep, with dark smudges under her eyes, but she didn’t appear to regret it at all. “It did take some time,” she admitted, “but we deciphered all the messages, and we know what they were used for.”

“The enchantments,” Miss Frost said, “are mostly variations on ‘gather together’, all intended to siphon metaphysical energy from those performing the spells—”

“And trap it in an electromagnet for later use,” Julian finished. “To power a locomotive engine, and I imagine a great variety of other things. Clever, really.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Carroway, slightly disappointed. “You got there before us.”

“Probably some time after,” Ned said, “unless you really were up all night.”

Her cheeks went suddenly pink. Julian blinked.

“Well, be that as it may,” said Miss Frost, slightly more loudly than necessary, “and whoever arrived at the solution first, I think we have sufficient evidence to bring to the authorities.”

Ned nodded, taking the telegraph forms from Mrs. Carroway and peering at the notes written between the lines. He, at least, appeared not to have noticed her reaction. “These should go to Hatton, I think. I’ll take care of that. Take the holiday with your mother, Miss Frost—unless you’ve decided you do want a change of career.”

“I should say not, Mr. Mathey.” She shook his hand, then turned to Julian. “And Merry Christmas, Mr. Lynes.”

“Merry Christmas, Miss Frost.” Julian offered her an innocent smile. “I’m glad to see yours has been as successful as mine.”

She gave him a measuring look. The set of her mouth was stern, but it did not quite hide the twinkle in her eye. “Likewise, I’m sure. Sophie, would you care for some breakfast?”

After Mrs. Carroway had thanked them effusively and taken her leave, Ned frowned at him. “What was that about?”

“Nothing of importance. Should we drop this electromagnet at Oppenshaw’s, then go straight for the yard? Or will Hatton have plans, do you think?”

“You know how it is with these confirmed bachelors,” Ned said, reaching for Julian’s hand in the privacy of the closed office. “They never have anything better to do than work, even on a holiday.”

Julian tightened his fingers about Ned’s. “Oh, I’m not so sure of that,” he said, smiling faintly. “I think we know how to keep Christmas rather well.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] A Christmas Cable](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9279665) by [marianas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marianas/pseuds/marianas)




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